


you can see it with the lights out

by parcequelle



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-28 21:37:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8463841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parcequelle/pseuds/parcequelle
Summary: "I think I'd like to tell the children. About us."(Or: Bernie and Serena tell their kids about their relationship and make out a lot in between.)





	1. Chapter 1

Serena is taking her twelve-minute farce of a lunch break in the company of her computer when Bernie slips into the office, shuts the door behind her and says, “We need to talk.” It’s far from being her favourite sentence, but Serena is charitable enough to allow that Bernie rarely intends to be dramatic, even when it comes out that way.

Serena sets her sandwich down and leans back in her chair. “Problem?”

“Ah…” Bernie glances between her face and the sandwich and changes tack. “No,” she says. “Not really. I’m sorry, you keep eating.” She waves her hand in apparent dismissal and goes to squint at her own computer.

“You know, I am renowned for my ability to multitask,” Serena says, and Bernie’s eyes snap up at that, the smirk all over her face before Serena can take it back.

“Oh, I know,” Bernie purrs, and of course they’re now both thinking about that time Serena had to give a mortality statistic rundown to Guy Self over the phone with Bernie’s hand down her trousers and lips on her neck. Serena had managed to pass off her only-slightly breathless voice with a fib about having just run up three flights of stairs, and Guy had bought it, too, if only because it had given him the chance to snark at her about her lack of condition. She’d hung up on him, unaffected, tossed the phone aside and cried out for an entirely different reason.

Bernie’s got that look in her eye that tells Serena her lunch break is about to be cut even shorter, so she heads it off at the pass by saying, “Get your mind out of the gutter, I just meant that you can still talk to me while I eat. Now, what’s this about?” She picks up her sandwich again and takes a demonstrative bite. When Bernie doesn’t speak, Serena says, “Come on, we both know this is the most time we’ll have until this evening.”

Bernie sighs. “Yes, you’re right.”

Serena resists the urge to say, _As always_ in response, but only because she’s got a mouthful of bread and salad. She watches with interest as Bernie pulls up the visitor’s chair to sit beside her, close; allowing their knees to touch, warm skin through scrubs and cotton. “It’s nothing bad,” she starts.

Serena raises an eyebrow, pops her last bit of sandwich into her mouth, chews and swallows. “Not yet convinced, I’m sorry to say.”

Bernie half-laughs, half-sighs, shakes that ridiculous mop of hair that Serena would gladly run her fingers through right now if she just— “Serena?”

“I’m with you,” Serena says, then, “What?”

Bernie grins slyly, leans forward. “What were you thinking about just now? Because you—”

“Later,” Serena says, winking. “For now, just get on with it, won’t you? It’s not like you to beat around the bush.”

“No,” Bernie says. “You’re right.”

Twice in one conversation? Now Serena is caught in a strange no-man’s land somewhere between chuffed and concerned. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Bernie goes on, “and—” Stops. Starts again. “I think … I think I’d like to tell the children. About us.”

Of all the conversational topics Serena had anticipated, this wasn’t one, and she is both relieved and curious at having been caught off-guard. She tosses her sandwich wrapper into the bin beside her desk and studies Bernie, her shoulders, the tension in her posture. Leans forward herself. “Are you sure?” she asks. “You mustn’t feel that you have to do this for … for me, you know.”

“I know,” Bernie says quickly, “and I don’t. By which I mean I – I do want to, of course, for your sake – I’m not ashamed of you, Serena, I could never be – but not _just_ for your sake.” Her hands are knotted together in her lap, but her nod is decisive. “For mine. And theirs. I want to.”

Serena gazes at her, feels her heartrate pick up just at the sight of her and wants to roll her eyes at herself. How long is this going to last, she wonders? Shouldn’t she be past this hormonal stage by now? “Well,” she says, “if you’re sure, then I think that’s wonderful.”

“You do?”

“Of course,” she says. She sips at her coffee. “I’ve been gearing up to tell Elinor myself for a while now, but the timing just hasn’t been right. Either Jason was with us, or she was in a rush to get back to uni, or we spoke primarily about … what did I say his name was?”

“Matt?” Bernie tries.

“Max, I think.” Serena frowns. “Anyway, not the point. We’ll take the leap together, then. If we both agree.”

Bernie nods. “We did, uh, did say we’d do that, didn’t we?”

“What,” Serena teases, “wait however long it would take for you to finally accept that we’re more than ‘just friends’?”

Bernie rolls her eyes, but still reaches out to squeeze Serena’s hand. “Yes, well, all that aside, I think after ten months even I can admit this might be a relationship.”

Serena mock-gasps. “Ooh, my, did I really just hear her use the ‘r’ word?”

“A relationship that could quite easily be terminated if you don’t—”

But Serena has cut her off by shifting over to sit in her lap, and she winds her arms around Bernie’s neck, winds her fingers into that glorious hair and scratches lightly at her skull, makes Bernie tip her head back and groan. “With all due respect, Ms Wolfe, do shut up and kiss me.”

Bernie complies. They do still have five minutes, after all.

*

She knows Bernie well enough to know that the conversation isn’t over, and amuses herself for the rest of the afternoon by making bets on how long it will take her to revisit. They clock off with a little time left over for Albie’s, and though Serena would love nothing more than to head straight home and fall asleep on the sofa with her head on Bernie’s shoulder and an empty glass in her hand, it’s Zosia’s birthday, so they determine – only a little begrudgingly – to put in an appearance.

Serena has bet herself that Bernie will hold out until they’re on the car ride home, so when they’re in the empty corridor, headed outside, and Bernie says, “About what we were discussing earlier…” Serena has to laugh. Bernie turns to her, instantly suspicious. “What?”

“Nothing, dear,” Serena sing-songs, reaching up to pat Bernie on the cheek. “Do go on.”

“…right,” Bernie says. “I just wanted to let you know I’ve asked Cam and Charlotte if they’ll meet me for afternoon tea on Saturday.”

“And? Heard back already?”

“Nothing yet from Cam, but Charlotte replied right away to say it suits her, which is … well, more than I’d dared hope.” She is struggling to keep the smile off her face, the big daft idiot, and Serena feels herself melt a little, shuffles in closer and tucks her arm into Bernie’s. Bernie glances down at her, smiling for real, now, and it is for that reason that they walk straight into the vending machine.

Serena’s fur hat has provided her with all the cranial protection she needs, but Bernie is rubbing at a spot on her forehead that already looks like it wants to turn into a bump. “I have some cream in my bag,” Serena tells her, glancing around to ascertain that they are still alone. “Small mercy that no one saw that.”

Bernie huffs. “Quite.”

But she’d spoken too soon, of course, because the first thing that happens when she and Bernie walk into Albie’s – decorated in a truly hideous, glittering fashion, courtesy of the collective sense of humour of Zosia’s flatmates – is that Raf sidles up to them, a distinctly champagne-like glint in his eye, and asks, “So, how’s the lovecussion?”

Bernie gives him a look that would chastise him a great deal more were he sober. “Excuse me?”

“You know,” Raf says, and _giggles_ , “’love concussion?’ When you’re so preoccupied with gazing into someone’s eyes that you bang your head on something?”

“A recognised medical condition, I’m sure,” Bernie drawls.

Serena pats her arm, a show of comfort that probably doesn’t gel with the fact that she’s trying hard not to laugh. “I’ll find us both some wine, shall I?”

“That,” Bernie mutters, “is an exceptionally good idea. And perhaps a glass of water for Mr di Lucca?”

Serena nods, eyebrows raised. “Indeed.” 

She winds through a crush of people to get to the bar, congratulating Zosia on the way, and returns with her three glasses to find Bernie caught in animated conversation with Isaac and Dom, her head thrown back and the long, elegant line of her neck exposed. The light catches her hair as she laughs, throaty and full, and Serena stops walking – arrested, mouth dry – as heat courses hard through her body.

“She’s a right beauty, is your Bernie,” says a voice in her ear, and Serena turns to find Raf, grinning at her like an oversized puppy. She rolls her eyes and presses the glass of water into his hands, which he accepts with a bizarre kind of bow that makes him look like he’s channelling Bruce Lee. Drunk, Scottish Bruce Lee. Serena snorts.

Raf slings an arm around her shoulder and tilts his head, conspiratorial. “Everyone knows, my dear Serena,” he says. “You know that, don’t you? Evvvveryone knows and nooobody cares.”

“Knows what?” she asks. Her eyes are fixed on Bernie again; drawn to her, moth to flame.

“’Bout you two,” he stage-whispers. “That you’re in love. We’re _happy_ for you, Serena. You _deserve_ to be happy.” He drains the water; that’s something, at least. “The others weren’t … weren’t good enough for you. Hubby and Robbie the Bobbie. But she?” he points at Bernie, who of course chooses that moment to turn her gorgeous, soulful, sparkling eyes on Serena and rob her of breath. “She’s good enough. You both are. Greatest power couple since Sculder and Mully,” he says, then pouts. “My glass is empty.” 

“Seems that way,” Serena says drily. “Why not get yourself some more water? And perhaps a few pretzels, why you’re at it?”

Raf bends forward and kisses her on the cheek with a loud smack, a sound that draws a laugh from Bernie as she swaggers over. (Well, in fairness, she probably just walks, but Serena can’t take her eyes off her hips in those sinful black jeans.) “That is the best idea I’ve heard ALL YEAR!” Raf shouts this last part and then giggles when Sacha and Mo, talking nearby, look over and laugh at him. “Oops,” he says. He turns to Bernie, clasps her on the shoulder and tells her, seriously, “Your girlfriend is the cleverest, smartest, most brilliant woman in the world.”

“Yes, I rather like her,” Bernie agrees, eyes dancing, but Serena can’t even appreciate being called clever in three different ways by a drunken baby-faced surgeon, because Raf just called Bernie her girlfriend, and Bernie didn’t pale, didn’t cough awkwardly, didn’t fight it. To refer to this as a relationship is one thing, no small thing, but they’ve never used words like _girlfriend_ before. Serena’s never dared.

“One of those for me, or do you need both?” Bernie jokes, gesturing to the wine, and the question jolts Serena out of her daze.

“Of course, sorry,” she says. Hands it over. “It’s not yet quite as bad as all that.”

“I should hope not,” Bernie says. She grins. “For a moment there I thought dear Raf might make a pass at you.”

“No need,” Serena says airily. “He already did.”

Bernie stops with her glass halfway to her lips. “I’m sorry?”

Serena smirks at her. “While you were in Kiev.” No fun revealing the true content of that little scene, now, is there? “Turns out even I can still turn a head.”

“I’ll say,” Bernie mutters, but she doesn’t sound angry. She sounds … Serena feels her cheeks heat beneath Bernie’s dark gaze.

“But he is rather spectacularly tipsy today.” She glances around. “Where did he go?” 

“Over there, look.” Bernie nudges her in the direction of the food table, where Raf is piling pretzels onto a paper plate and occasionally tossing one into Fletch’s mouth. 

“Oh, to be so young,” Serena murmurs, only half kidding, but it earns her a smirk.

“Don’t be silly,” Bernie says, her voice like hot coals. She leans in, and her lips brush Serena’s ear in what is surely not an accident when she adds, “Who needs youth when you’ve got stamina and years of experience?”

They don’t stay much longer. No one asks why.

*

Jason has taken to reading books about physical exercise, lately, and has built into his weekly routine a one-hour walk, designed in accordance with factors such as altitude and oxygen levels (or, more plainly put, the number of hills and trees on the route), with the goal of improving his aerobic fitness and thereby his brain’s capacity to absorb and retain information. (His words.) This walk takes place every Saturday morning from 9:30 to 10:30, and it is a precious, precious gem of consistent quiet in Serena’s hectic, unpredictable, noisy life. If they aren’t on call, she gets to have a lie-in before getting up to make breakfast, which the three of them eat together at the dining table in dressing-gowns and slippers – no makeup, hair proudly unbrushed – before Jason heads out, promising them faithfully that he will return at 10:30 sharp in time for them to marathon his recordings of _World’s Strongest Man_.

Sometimes, she and Bernie sit in the parlour with cups of tea and pages of the _Guardian_ , comfortably silent. More often, they wait for the door to click closed, for the sound of Jason’s footsteps to recede up the front path, and they barrel up the stairs and back to bed.

This morning, the morning of Bernie’s looming meeting with her children, she is particularly voracious. Serena has barely rid herself of her fluffy slippers before Bernie has hoisted her up and thrown her back onto the bed, a rare show of force – Bernie is usually strangely self-conscious about her own strength – that has Serena almost instantly wet and grabbing at her in impatience. She reaches up to unbutton Bernie’s too-large pyjama shirt, to push it from her shoulders and win herself some warm skin, but Bernie just grins, grabs Serena’s hands and pins them above the pillow with one of her own. 

“No you don’t,” Bernie murmurs, licking a line up her neck, making her squirm. “Not this time.”

Serena can feel the heat flushing through her, must look a desperate, lust-filled fright, but Bernie still pauses for a moment, brings her other hand up to caress Serena’s cheek. The sexy, macho Major Wolfe-certainty slides off her face for a moment, replaced by slightly awkward, slightly insecure just-Bernie, who says softly, “Is … is this all right? I got rather caught up, just now, but I don’t want to do anything you don’t, don’t want…”

Serena leans up and kisses her, does her level best to use it to convey the truth of her words. “Thank you for checking,” she says, “but I’ll have you know it’s more than all right.” She rolls her hips against Bernie’s as punctuation, grins when Bernie lets out a stuttering breath and presses back. “It’s bloody _marvellous_ , actually. The only thing missing is … are your, ah, your fatigues.” Her cheeks redden as she says it, a moment of misplaced embarrassment, though it’s more for the cliché of the thing than the fantasy itself.

“Really?” Bernie asks, apparently serious, and Serena rolls her eyes.

“Well, _obviously_.”

“I’ll have to, ah, break them out of retirement, then.” She kisses Serena, her tongue wicked and dancing and probing and hot, and then whispers, “Next time.” 

Serena groans, and arches, and lets her major take charge.


	2. Chapter 2

The café is ‘indie,’ apparently, not that Bernie has the slightest idea what that means. Charlotte had suggested it as a meeting spot conveniently located between their places (not realising, of course, that Bernie would be coming from the other direction), and Bernie had grabbed the rare consideration with both hands, unwilling to risk doing anything to upset the fragile balance they’ve managed to achieve over the last few months.

She sits at a corner table, twirling a packet of sugar between her restless fingers, wondering what she’s done to time to make it this excruciatingly slow, when Cameron walks in and spots her. She stands to greet him, smiling but not daring anything else, and when he leans over to kiss her cheek she feels her eyes well with sudden tears, hurries to blink them away before he can see them.

If his indulgent smile is any indication, she’s utterly failed.

Cameron takes a seat beside her and says, “Charlotte just texted me. She’s on her way.”

“Great,” Bernie says. “Good.” She tosses the sugar from her right hand to her left. “How are you, Cam?”

“Not bad,” he says. Bernie’s already claimed the sugar, so he reaches out and fiddles with the salt shaker instead. “Busy, you know how it is.”

She nods. “Classes?”

“Going well, mostly. I’m doing Integrated Clinical Studies this term.”

“Yes, you mentioned that,” Bernie says.

“It was fine until they gave my lecturer the boot last week.” Salt shaker up, salt shaker down. “Apparently he was caught drinking on the job. And not just beer.”

Bernie’s eyebrows hit her hairline. “Oh dear.”

“Yeah.”

“So what’s happened?” 

Now Cam looks up at her, gives her half a smile. “They didn’t want to risk cancelling the course when there are so many enrolments, so they’ve put that prat Jerry Baker in charge instead.”

“No.” Bernie drops her sugar and then her chin. “Cameron, tell me it isn’t so!”

Cam laughs. “I knew you’d have that reaction! I never forgot that story you told me about him trying to change the questions on the final exams at the last minute—”

“—because there wasn’t enough emphasis on neurosurgery.” She shakes her head. “Unbelievable.”

“I think it’s a type,” Cam says. “All the guys I know who want to specialise in neurosurgery are … like that.”

Bernie thinks of Guy Self and snorts. “No kidding. Baker is an absolute windbag, but I must somewhat begrudgingly admit that he does know his stuff.” She spreads her hands. “Look on the bright side?”

“Sure, Mum,” he says, and his voice is sarcastic, but his eyes are kind; Bernie smiles at him, feels her heart soar, and then:

“Is this a private party?”

There’s even more sarcasm in that voice, the eyes a little more guarded, but she’s here – she’s come, and that is more than Bernie would have been able to dream of a year ago. Charlotte would likely never admit it, but she’s a lot like Bernie herself, so Bernie doesn’t try to push her; just reaches out a hand – not a handshake, but an open palm – and is glad to have done so when Charlotte takes it before she sits down. She doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t linger, but she takes it.

“I take it you’re both hungry?” Bernie says, passing them both copies of the all-day breakfast menus.

“Always,” they say in unison, and Bernie manages to rein in her nostalgic smile. They read in silence, Bernie trying to discern the difference between a French pancake, a German pancake and a Hungarian pancake without having to admit to her lack of culinary sophistication – Serena would be horrified, wouldn’t she? – when she feels her daughter’s eyes on her and looks up. 

“You’re looking thin,” Charlotte says.

Bernie’s eyes skim the stick-figure that is her daughter and she raises an eyebrow. “Me?”

“Yeah,” Charlotte says. “Compared to … before, I mean.”

Before she left Marcus? Before she came back? Before British forces pulled out of Helmand?

“I’m fine,” Bernie says, in lieu of asking. “Just not doing as much muscle work as before, I suppose.” The words are generously accompanied by an image from this morning of her and Serena, slick skin to slick skin, Serena making cracks about Bernie’s macho army strength even as she writhed beneath her, and Bernie swallows, forces it away. Clears her throat. “I could say the same about you,” she manages. “Are you eating enough at that university of yours?”

Charlotte rolls her eyes beneath her too-long fringe and says, “God, not you too, you sound like Dad.” And freezes.

All of them freeze. Look anywhere but at each other. And then the waiter, bless his purple-goateed indie soul, wanders over to take their orders and they are all forced to smile and say words like _apricot jam_ and _coffee_ and _thank you_.

Bernie doesn’t ask about the pancakes, just orders the eggs. 

By the time the waiter is gone again, she has remembered how to speak – just think of Serena, she tells herself desperately; what would Serena say? – and she swallows. “This is going to happen,” she says, as gently as she can when she feels like her throat is lined with sandpaper. “He’s going to come up, from time to time. I don’t … I don’t want you to feel as though you can’t even mention his name. Around me. Okay?”

Charlotte nods, her fingers still gripping the menu too tight. “Okay,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced.

Cam has been looking back and forth between them, psychoanalysis written all over his face, but it still surprises Bernie that he touches Charlotte on the hand, forcing her to look at him. “Lotta,” he says, softly, and the nickname makes Bernie’s heart ache – she hasn’t heard it for years, had no idea anyone still used it. Had no idea anyone was allowed.

Charlotte takes a deep breath and meets Bernie’s eyes, mirrors of her own. “I have to tell you something,” she says.

Beneath the table, Bernie clenches her fist. “Okay.”

“I moved out.”

It takes a moment for Bernie to understand the implications, and then it hits. “Of … home?”

Charlotte nods. “Three weeks ago. Partly it was having to commute to campus every day, but it was … mostly it was because of Dad. And you.”

“Charlotte, I’m—”

“Let me finish,” she snaps, and Bernie leans back, hands raised in surrender. Charlotte sighs. She looks up, and for the first time in a long time, there is more pain than anger in her expression. “I was so mad at you for leaving, Mum. I wondered how you could be that selfish, how you could just abandon Cam and me, but … especially Dad, when he was here alone all the time you were away.”

Bernie feels the sting of truth, the fresh wave of guilt that comes with it, knows she can’t defend herself against it. Doesn’t try. And then Charlotte says, “But I get now that it wasn’t just you.”

Bernie holds her breath. The waiter brings their drinks; Bernie accepts hers with a distracted smile and then wraps her hands around the mug, mindless of its heat. 

When Charlotte doesn’t continue, Cameron blows on his tea and then says, “We’ve talked about this a lot, Mum, and we … one reason we were glad you invited us both here was because we wanted to talk to you together.” He reaches out, rests his fingers against Bernie’s forearm for a moment before drawing away. “To … to apologise.”

Bernie’s eyes almost fall out of her head. Her frequently-imagined offspring-related scenarios have usually involved some undignified variation on begging, grovelling, bargaining – always on her part – but this, something like this had never featured. When she can finally form words, she can only ask, “What, what for?”

“For blaming you,” Charlotte says, at the same time Cam says, “For writing those statements.”

Charlotte shoots him a look and something sibling-sealed passes between them, then Charlotte shakes her head. “It was wrong of Dad to make us write them,” she says, bitterly, and Bernie raises an eyebrow; she hasn’t heard that tone for a few years. “How could he ask something like that of us? It’s so fucking manipulative!” She is watching Bernie, her dark eyes a strange blend of hurt and anger and remorse, a thousand words flicking through them that coalesce into one vague hand-wave, one hopeless sentence. “You’re … you’re our mum.”

_I was at both births, for a start,_ Bernie thinks, and has to press down on the inappropriate urge to laugh.

“You weren’t around all the time and that sucked, but I know you didn’t, like, leave because you didn’t care about us. It was a dick move to imply it.”

“I won’t argue that,” Bernie murmurs, but knows she needs to stop this before it turns into an anti-Marcus bitch-fest, as satisfying as it would be to take part. 

Cameron has been quiet, chugging his tea like it’s beer, and now Bernie looks over at him. “Cam?” she ventures.

He looks up, swallows. “I’m sorry, Mum. When he asked me to write that statement, I was so mad at you that I just did it without thinking, but I … I regret it now.”

“Same here,” Charlotte says, looking at her hands.

That means more than Bernie could ever say; this time she can’t even try to hide that she’s tearing up, and Cam rests a hand on her shoulder, squeezes once. “Thank you,” she says. “Both of you.”

Their waiter turns up again – Bernie is starting to suspect that he’s been standing behind a curtain somewhere, waiting for the break in conversation – and plies them with plates, affording them all a chance to recover from their collective emotional outbursts using the tried and tested Wolfe-Dunn family method: stare at your food and hope desperately that by the time said food is gone, the awkwardness will be gone along with it.

“So,” Cam says, when they’ve all finished eating and Bernie is back to twirling the sugar packet (a different one, this time, since she’d begun to fear that the first couldn’t take much more strain). “How’s Serena?”

Bernie coughs on her last sip of lukewarm coffee and tries to pretend it’s unrelated to the question. “Sorry,” she says, gesturing at nothing. “Went down the wrong way.”

“Sure.” Cam is smirking. “So?”

“So what?”

Charlotte rolls her eyes again. (She loves her daughter, Bernie thinks, but that sarcastic expression is no less annoying now than it was when Charlotte was fourteen.) “How’s your girlfriend?” she asks, as though Bernie’s simple. Bernie doesn’t know what expression crosses her own face at that, but it makes Charlotte say, “Oh, just give it up, Mum, I’ve known for months. Cam told me.”

“Cameron!” Bernie exclaims. He has the grace to look mildly sheepish. “I told you we were just friends!”

“Sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t sound it. “I just ... I saw you together, remember?”

“Yes, but—”

“I saw how you looked at her, Mum. I saw how she looked at you. It was clear as day.” His voice gentles. “You didn’t need to hide it anymore.”

“I wasn’t hiding it!” Bernie says, too loudly; a few people look over and she smiles apologetically, takes a deep breath to lower her voice. “I’m sorry for shouting. I wasn’t hiding anything, Cameron, at least not intentionally. I may have … had some … feelings for her, but at the time of that conversation, we were _just friends_.”

“Past tense!” Charlotte cries, slapping the table with her left hand. She’s still biting the lurid colour off her nails, Bernie sees, fondness and exasperation rising in equal measure. “You’ve as good as admitted it!”

“Dear God,” Bernie sighs. “This is really not going at all how I pictured it.” 

“What does that mean?” Charlotte demands, and Bernie shakes her head on a disbelieving laugh.

“I invited you here because I wanted to tell you both, in person, that I am … that we are … that Serena and I are in a relationship.”

They both stare at her.

“Surprise?” she tries.

Cam starts laughing. “Have you actually been _worrying_ about this?”

“Of course I have! I know you’re both born of the bloody anything-goes generation, but telling my children that I’m practically shacked up with another woman is not something I go about lightly.”

“You’re _living_ together?” Charlotte squawks. 

“…oh dear,” Bernie says. “Did I just—”

“Yes,” Cameron says. He is enjoying this far too much; she pinches him on the arm and relishes his yelp. “Mum!”

“I see some things never change.”

But he’s smirking at her again, his infuriating I-told-you-so smirk – pure Wolfe, that one – and Bernie sighs. “We aren’t living together,” she says. “I have my flat in Holby and Serena shares her house with her nephew, but we … we do spend a lot of time together.” She’s already had a semblance of this talk with Cameron, so she is primarily looking at Charlotte when she asks, hesitantly, “Do you think you could … come to be all right with that? I’ve cocked up so much with you two, with our family, and I know I can’t change any of that. I know that.” Bernie glances away. “I just wanted to … to be honest. This time.”

The long moment it takes Charlotte to answer is a challenge to Bernie’s blood pressure, but when she does, it’s with a slow nod. “I’m okay with it,” she says. Then, suddenly, “I’ve been seeing a psych.”

Bernie tries not to let her surprise at the subject change or the admission show on her face. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Charlotte says. She doesn’t elaborate, but does say, “It’s helping, I think.”

“That’s great news,” Bernie says, carefully. “I’m glad.” She wants to tell Charlotte that she thinks she’s brave and strong, that she’s so, so proud of her for reaching out to someone – so contrary to everything Bernie has unwillingly instilled in her – but the words tie her tongue into silence and she just nods, tries to smile.

“I don’t care that you’re gay, Mum,” Charlotte says, and Bernie resists the urge to wince at her bluntness. “It was a shock, at first, but I’m … I was mostly pissed that you cheated on Dad. Didn’t care who with.” She shrugs. “You are who you are, I guess.”

Whether this pronouncement refers to her sexuality or her infidelity, Bernie doesn’t know and doesn’t ask.

They manage another fifteen minutes of conversation on safer topics – Charlotte’s classes, Cam’s new flatmate, the UEFA Cup Final – before they separate, with a hug from Cam and a tentative kiss on the cheek from Charlotte.

“Say hi to Serena from me,” Cam says, before he turns away, and Bernie can only stutter out that she will; she watches Charlotte disappear down the opposite road, headed for the bus, and then goes to make her own stunned way home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was going to apologise for the fluffiness, but you know what, ain't a bit sorry. I JUST WANT THEM TO BE HAPPY, DAMMIT.

Serena has just started on dinner when she hears the car pull in, so she pours a second glass of wine and waits for Bernie to come to her. She’s a little nervous, if she’s honest; Bernie had texted her to ask if she should stop by Waitrose on the way home but hadn’t revealed anything further – hardly surprising, she knows, given Bernie’s disinclination to waste time tapping out something of import if she can just say it instead. 

She knows things have been going better with Bernie’s kids over the last few months – Charlotte making more of an effort, Cameron showing more understanding each time they meet – but with this kind of revelation, the revelation of an attachment that is taking the place of their father? She isn’t sure.

She hears Jason’s rhythmic steps as they round into the hallway, hears him say, by way of greeting, “Doctor Bernie, you’re five minutes early!”

Serena is still contemplating whether or not to go out and join them when Bernie says, “Yes, I know; I failed to compensate for the new set of traffic lights over on Crew Street. I got through right away where I’d calculated five minutes of waiting time.”

“I understand,” she hears Jason say. “A common error, but I’m sure you’ll remember next time.”

“I’m sure I will, Jason.” There is a smile in her voice that makes Serena smile in turn. “Serena’s in the kitchen?” 

“5:56pm; dinner preparation. Yes. Doctor Bernie?”

“Yes?”

“I think you should kiss her.”

A pause. “And why is that?”

“Because she looked distracted, earlier, and I have observed that she is often distracted when thinking or talking of you. It is therefore logical to surmise that your kissing her might remove the source of the distraction and return her to a state of efficiency.”

“Thanks, Jason,” Bernie says, and Serena can hear her smiling again. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Serena considers the wisdom of jumping in to inform him that kissing Bernie rarely succeeds in reducing her desire to think about it, let alone _removing_ said desire, but decides against it; Bernie’s ego’s had enough stroking for one day. That is a conversation for another time, she thinks, and right on cue, Bernie walks in, grinning. “Not a word,” Serena says, wielding a carrot at her. “I’ll have you know that Jason totally misread the situation and I was distracted by something other than the memory of … your … lips,” she says, and then, “ _mmmph_ ,” because Bernie has backed her up against the fridge and is, indeed, kissing her, her tongue sliding hotly against Serena’s; Serena moans and leans up, itching for closeness, and finds herself hoisted onto the kitchen table where she wraps her legs around Bernie’s waist and hauls her in, traps her with her thighs.

At Bernie’s look – a deliciously satisfying combination of surprise and dark-eyed lust – she smirks and says, silkily, “I may not be able to beat you at arm-wrestling, Major, but I do have my strengths.”

They stop when the onion starts sizzling, separating reluctantly with a kiss that leaves Serena’s head spinning. She watches Bernie lick her lips, pats her hazily on the arm when Bernie sets her back down on her feet. “To be continued,” she murmurs, and notes with satisfaction that Bernie herself is looking more than a little flustered, colour high in her cheeks. 

“Absolutely,” Bernie says, then chuckles self-consciously as she goes for the knife block. “Pass me the carrots?”

In the early days, Serena had always tried to shoo her out of the kitchen on the claim that she was a guest, that she didn’t have to, that she should go and sit down, but Bernie had proven so consistently bad at relaxing – always hovering or looming or poking her head in – that Serena had eventually just given it up as a bad job and handed her a knife. Since then, when Bernie’s there –which is more often than not, these days – they cook together. (A handful of times, Bernie has even had the gall to try to kick _Serena_ out of the kitchen and make _her_ relax. Serena is never as put out as she pretends to be.)

Now, the fragrance of frying vegetables all but drowning out the sound of a documentary about Roman plumbing from the next room, Serena turns to Bernie. “If you think that little display just now is going to make me forget to ask, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“I’m sorry?” She glances up to meet Serena’s questioning gaze and then looks down again, slides her blade through a courgette with a strength and precision that shouldn’t still make Serena’s skin tingle.

“This afternoon,” Serena says. She watches the pan as she stirs. “You haven’t said how it went.”

“No,” Bernie says. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t being deliberately evasive, just … processing.”

Serena nods, waits for her to continue; takes the chopping board from Bernie and pushes the vegetables into the pan. Moves to the counter to start cutting bread. 

“It went well,” Bernie says, finally. She looks up and smiles, and Serena has to smile back. “It went so much better than I expected; I never … never imagined.”

Curiosity piqued, Serena stops. “Why, what happened?”

“They a—” her breath catches on a laugh. “They _apologised_. To me.” She shakes her head. “Their absentee mother who cheated on their father with a woman and lied about it.”

“That’s…” Serena makes a small sound of surprise. “Bernie, that’s wonderful.”

“Almost too good to be true,” Bernie mutters, but Serena lets it slide; she’s learned the hard way that it’s best not to engage with Bernie’s morbid Murphy’s Law approach to her children. 

“Did they talk about Marcus?” she asks instead, stirring again and then adding what she calls ‘giving it some colour,’ what Jason calls ‘squishy veg,’ and what Bernie calls ‘making up for all the wine.’

“Well,” Bernie says, “it’s funny you should ask that…” She really is an abysmal actress; she’s almost glowing with glee. “They both said that they regretted writing the statements against me, and Charlotte employed some rather choice language in her assessment of Marcus’ forcing them to do it.” She finishes washing the boards and sets them in the dishrack to dry, leans against the sink when she turns around. “They feel _used_ , Serena. By him. They think it was unjust. I never thought … I never dared hope that they might come to see it that way. I think … I think they might be starting to believe that I’m not completely evil.” She takes a breath and says, “And Charlotte’s moved out.”

Serena feels her eyebrow shoot up. “Big news,” she says.

“Indeed.”

“So where’s she living?” 

“Quite close to Cam, actually. I don’t have the address yet, but she did say … she did say maybe I could come and check it out one day.”

Serena can’t resist any longer; she sets her wooden spoon aside and crosses the kitchen to hug her. “Oh, Bernie, I’m so pleased for you,” she mumbles into her neck. “I really am.”

Bernie is warm and solid in her arms, chin resting on the crown of Serena’s head, and Serena sighs, content … and then remembers. She pulls back slightly, looks up into Bernie’s eyes. “What about the other thing? Or did you postpone that discussion in light of other revelations?”

“Not exactly,” Bernie says. She smiles down at her, lopsided. “Did you happen to know, Serena Campbell, that virtually everyone in this city already knows that you and I are involved? Including, apparently, the daughter I had intended to tell today?”

“But…” Bernie draws away to start pulling plates and cutlery from the drawers, while Serena stands there, rooted to the spot in astonishment. “But how did she know if you didn’t tell her?” 

“Ay,” Bernie says, “there’s the rub – it seems that my dearest son told her. You remember that business with his accident last year?”

Serena resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Yes, of course.”

“Well, during his time on AAU he decided there was something between us, and a couple of months ago he took it upon himself to inform Charlotte.” Bernie disappears to set the table and Serena, still a little stunned, pulls out the rice dish – or at least she opens the cupboard with the intention of doing so, but it’s Bernie who comes up behind her, warm against Serena’s back, and reaches up those few extra inches to get it down.

“The cheeky bugger,” Bernie goes on, laughing. “He asks after you every time we meet, but I never … he knew we were close, but I thought he was just being friendly. And now it seems he knew before we did.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go quite that far,” Serena says. “Oh, don’t look at me like that; I know you already wanted me back when all that went on, even if you were still denying it to yourself.”

Bernie looks affronted; at the idea that someone could know more about her than she could, no doubt. “I can’t say I—”

“Relax, Bernie, darling, I wanted you too.”

Bernie stares at her. “And you – you _knew_? So early on?”

Serena stares back at her, vegetables momentarily forgotten, and realises that, despite everything, they’ve never actually talked about this part. “That wasn’t … that wasn’t _early on_ , Bernie. It was three weeks before you first kissed me! And you know very well that we’d been headed there for months.” She waggles her eyebrows, drops her voice. “I’d certainly be thinking about it for months.” Bernie is still looking gobsmacked, so Serena reaches up and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, tugs on her earlobe. “You needn’t look so surprised, dearest. I know myself. My attraction to you was new and unexpected, but I never denied it.”

Now Bernie is looking at her with a kind of wondrous admiration, and she tangles her fingers into Serena’s. She seems to wrestle with her words for a moment before she says, “You’re … you’re amazing, do you know that?” 

“In fact I do,” Serena says smugly, and Bernie laughs.

“I mean it. I can’t believe how brave you are, Serena. How _honest_. To just…” she shakes her head. “I don’t deserve you,” she mumbles, and Serena waves that away, kisses her swiftly.

“None of that, all right? It isn’t a question of who deserves what – you have me and that’s that. Now,” she says, turning back to the stove, “do be a dear and let Jason know dinner is a go?”

*

Three days later, they’re in the middle of AAU’s attempt at a lull when Serena sees her chance and grabs it. She moves over to where Bernie is leaning against a pillar (the line of her legs and hips a source of appreciation, as always) and touches her arm. “Do you have a minute?”

Bernie glances up from the chart in her hands, casts her eyes around the ward. “Of course.”

They head into the office, and Serena decides, just this once, to ignore the giggling she can hear coming from the nurses’ station.

“Honestly,” Bernie says, when they’ve shut the door behind them, “Raf and Fletch are worse than a couple of schoolchildren. One would think the novelty would have worn off by now.”

“You’re telling me,” Serena says. “I think Evie’s got more maturity than the two of them put together.”

Bernie sits down in the visitor’s chair and extends her legs, which Serena takes as an invitation to kick off her shoes and rest her feet on Bernie’s lap. Bernie demonstrates her absent acceptance of this by sliding a hand up Serena’s trouser leg and caressing her calf. “What’s up?”

“I just spoke to Ellie,” Serena says. “She suggested I meet her for dinner tonight.”

“That’s great,” Bernie says. “I presume you said yes?”

“Well, I’m technically on shift until nine, so I wanted to check with you, first. Do you think you can manage it?”

“The last couple of hours?” Bernie shrugs. “Easy. Raf’s here, and I can always ring up to Keller if I need extra hands.”

Serena peers at her. “You’re sure?”

“’Course I am. As long as one of us is here, right?” 

“Right,” Serena says, with a sigh. “I’m being too controlling again, aren’t I?”

Bernie tickles her ankle, grins and says, “Oh, no, Ms Campbell, I’m not walking into that one.”

Serena gazes at her, affection singing through her. “You are a good deal cleverer than my ex-husband, I’ll give you that.”

Bernie snorts. “I should bloody well hope so. Shall I take Jason back to your place, then? If he’s all right with it?”

Serena opens her mouth to speak and is horrified when her eyes well up instead. Bernie’s just so … she’s _everything_. Bernie sees the change, of course, and her hand stills, eyes full of concern. “Serena? What is it?”

Serena blinks away her ridiculous, sentimental tears and says, as drily as she can, “Just my old lady hormones, don’t mind me.”

“Oh dear.” Bernie chuckles, squeezes her ankle. “Have a glass of water. Sounds daft, but it always helps me.”

“Will do,” Serena says. “So I’ll call Ellie back and tell her yes then, shall I?”

Bernie nods. “And if you clear it with Jason, you can let him know I’ll meet him by the vending machine at the usual time, calls from the red phone notwithstanding.”

“Which vending machine?” Serena purrs, leaning forward. “The one responsible for your lovecussion?”

“I’m leaving now,” Bernie announces, over Serena’s giggles. “I feel strangely betrayed.” She places Serena’s feet back on the floor and goes to leave, but turns around at the last minute to smile at her. “Nervous?” she asks.

Serena thinks about it. “A bit,” she says. “But no use worrying about that now, is there?”


	4. Chapter 4

The good thing about Elinor providing her with so little notice is that Serena really doesn’t have time to work herself into a state. Bernie is busy with the victim of an RTC brought in just as Serena is due to leave, so she has to content herself with a lingering gaze across the ward as she waits for the lift, with the soft quirk of Bernie’s lips that somehow manages to calm and reassure and support her all at once, even from afar.

She’s hit by the chill of the air as soon as she steps outside, so she pulls on her gloves and hat for the short walk to the car. She probably could have walked to the restaurant – it isn’t far – but she supposes it’s better to have the option of driving so she can get home when she wants to instead of having to phone Bernie…

…or a taxi, she thinks, and blushes, alone though she is, because wasn’t that thought just a little presumptuous? Bernie had offered to take Jason home, certainly, but she hadn’t said that she’d stay – she didn’t say that she’d wait for Serena to come back, did she? Maybe she’d rather just head straight home and go to bed?

She tells herself firmly that those are thoughts for later; that for now, she just needs to focus on how to talk to her daughter without sounding like a sexually confused teenaged mess.

She waits until they’ve both got half a glass of red in them before she even thinks about broaching the topic. The fact that Ellie turned up, and only five minutes after their agreed-upon time, has already put this evening one foot forward: now, as Ellie wraps up her ten-minute non-stop prattle on the casting arrangements for the autumn production of _Back to the ‘80s_ , Serena senses she might be able to get a word in.

They’ve already ordered, and Serena waits until the waitress has brought over their rolls before ripping one in half and saying, “Actually, there was something I was hoping to speak to you about.” At Ellie’s sharp look, she hastens to add, “It’s fine, it’s nothing bad. At least … I hope you won’t see it that way.”

Ellie pauses in the act of ripping her own roll to shreds and says, slowly, “Please, Mum, tell me you’re not getting back together with Dad.”

“ _What_?” Serena nearly spits Shiraz all over the table. “Good heavens, no. Ellie, no. Absolutely not.” She uses the fact that Ellie is taking a sip of her own to add, “Ah, similar ballpark, though.”

“So you’ve met someone?”

“Yes,” Serena says. “Yes, I have.”

“Well, that’s great! As long as it’s not Dad,” she jokes, and Serena gives her a look. “What? I have actually comprehended that he’s a jerk. Call a spade a spade, you always say.”

Serena can’t help chuckling. “That I do.” Why _should_ she give Edward any leeway, really? Ellie’s old enough to remember the times he’s disappointed them both; she’s old enough to cast her own judgments.

“So who is he, then?” Ellie asks, leaning forward. “Is it serious? The two of you must work together, since you, at least, have no other social life to speak of.”

“Hey!” Serena gestures between them. “What am I doing right now?”

“Having dinner with your daughter? That’s sad, Mum, come on.”

“Terribly sorry, dear; I didn’t realise our spending time together didn’t constitute socialising.”

Ellie rolls her eyes long-sufferingly. “Just quit it and tell me about him!”

There it is again, Serena thinks. That pesky pronoun.

“Yes,” she says. Stalling. “Right. Well, your sarcasm about my pathetic social life aside, you happen to be correct: we do work together. We’re co-leads on the same ward, in fact.” She leaves that out there, a hint that she hopes might transform into understanding, but Ellie doesn’t seem to have retained the information that Serena’s partner-in-crime is a woman. Directness it is, then. “It’s someone I’ve mentioned to you before, actually. A friend.” She drains the last of her glass and thinks, _Come on, Campbell. Rip off the plaster._ “It’s … it’s my friend Bernie.”

Ellie is chewing on a roll, and after Serena says it, she just keeps chewing. Serena waits, not breathing, for a reaction. And then: “I thought your friend Bernie was a woman?”

“Ah.” Serena blinks. “She is.”

“Oh.” Elinor isn’t thick, but it takes a couple of seconds for the cogs to tick over, and then Serena sees it: the moment she understands. “ _Oh_ ,” she says. “You mean you’re—”

“Yes,” Serena says. “We’re … together. Have been for some time now, actually.”

“So she’s gay?”

Serena raises an eyebrow. “It would seem so.”

“And are you?”

“I—” Serena shrugs. “I don’t know. Perhaps? I don’t really know how I’d class myself. I’m hardly … well, you didn’t come from a turkey baster, did you?”

Ellie wrinkles her nose. “Ew, TMI.”

Serena has no idea what that means, but is mildly satisfied to note that she still has the power to embarrass her.

Their food comes and they both start eating, Serena tasting little, sneaking glances up at Ellie’s face every couple of seconds in an effort to see what – if anything – she’s hiding. She doesn’t seem mad, at least, or disgusted, but the lack of notable reaction is uncharacteristic, as well.

Serena is finally so restless that she’s about to break down and ask when Ellie says, “Sorry if I’m acting weird.”

Serena sets her fork down, wipes her mouth with her napkin. “That’s perfectly all right, darling. I understand it’s a lot to take in—”

“No, Mum, it’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

Ellie pushes pasta around her plate with her fork, then looks up. “Do you think there’s a way to just … sense it? If someone’s gay?”

She thinks of Bernie, thinks of how there was a certain special kind of electricity there from the moment they met; thinks of the hundreds of other beautiful women she’s met in her lifetime – some also gay, some even openly attracted to her – and has to conclude that this was a special case. Not love at first sight, per se, but maybe lust at first handshake.

She realises Ellie is watching her, expecting an answer, and she has to shrug. “I don’t know, really. I read about something called a ‘gaydar,’ but I’m not sure I … what?”

Elinor is laughing at her, heavily made-up eyes crinkling at the corners. “You _read_ about gaydar? Mum, you are such a dork!”

“Well, we don’t all have the luxury of growing up with WiFi in the womb, now, do we? Some of us have to go about these things the old-fashioned way. You know, with re _search_.” She’s teasing, but she hasn’t forgotten the question that brought them here, and she reaches across the table to squeeze Ellie’s hand; so slender and small, even still. “Why do you ask?”

Ellie chews her lip for a moment, and then: “You remember Gabby, don’t you?”

“Of the bad Ecstasy and ectopic pregnancy?” Serena asks wryly. “Yes, somehow she’s stuck in my mind.” 

“She had a crush on you, you know.”

Serena stills, fork halfway to her mouth. “Excuse me?”

“When we were younger. Fifteen or so. Bit before that all happened, actually. She was always going on about you, your hair and eyes and how smart and pretty and cool you were and whatever.” Ellie shakes her head. “I didn’t get it for the longest time. How dumb am I?”

“I don’t think it’s dumb,” Serena murmurs. “It’s just not what you were expecting, was it? Hard to register something that’s totally off your … radar,” she says, and Ellie looks up with a smile, hears the joke she doesn’t make.

“I guess,” Ellie says. “I just remembered it now because … maybe she somehow saw something in you? Sensed it, kind of?”

“Oh, I very much doubt that. It could just as easily have been someone else’s mother, or a teacher, or—”

“But it wasn’t,” Ellie says, her eyes intense. “It was you.”

Serena spreads her hands. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Elinor. I didn’t know she … felt anything of the kind, at the time, and I certainly did nothing to encourage it. What are you getting at, here? Are you trying to establish if I was always like this?” She purses her lips. “If this is the reason things didn’t work out with your father?”

“No!” Ellie’s head snaps up and she shakes it wildly, hair flying. “Not at all. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I know it wasn’t your fault Dad cheated.”

At least that’s something.

Ellie takes a breath and says, “I really am happy for you, Mum. It just surprised me, that’s all.” She grins. “I thought for sure you’d tell me it was that hottie Mr Griffin.”

“Ellie!”

“What?”

“Mr Griffin is …”

“What? He’s not gay too, is he?”

“Elinor.” Serena gives her a withering look. “This isn’t something you catch from the water supply.”

Ellie looks about as chastised as she ever can. “Sorry,” she says.

Serena’s had more apologies from her in this conversation than she has in the last five years combined. Maybe she should come out more often.

“So what’s she like?” Ellie asks, shoving in her last bite of pasta. “Your girlfriend Bernie?”

 _My girlfriend Bernie_. Serena repeats it a few times in her mind, just for the pleasure of hearing it, and then chuckles. “Well, she’s … probably not what you’d expect.”

“Oh?”

“She’s a surgeon, too, but up until last year she was in the army. In Afghanistan.”

Elinor raises her eyebrows. “Wow,” she says. “So she’s butch?”

“N…not exactly,” Serena says, and flounders for a few moments before Elinor laughs.

“I’m pulling your leg, Mum.” Then, “But _is_ she butch?”

Serena throws her hands up in frustration. “Oh, honestly, I don’t know! What does that even mean? What does it matter? She’s tall, she’s strong, she’s tough, she’s slim, she has hair down to here,” she says, indicating her shoulders. “I’ve never seen her wear a skirt, but come to think of it, I don’t think she’s ever seen me wear one, either. If that makes her butch, then there you have it, but it doesn’t matter to me in the slightest. What matters is that she’s kind and supportive and funny, that she listens to me and cares for me and I trust her. We trust one another, both professionally and personally. _Those_ are the only things that matter.” Serena smirks. “Well, that, and she’s an exceptionally talented surgeon.” _Exceptionally good with her hands,_ she thinks but doesn’t say, because there are some lines you just don’t cross with your children, no matter their age or purported worldliness.

Ellie has been listening to all this with a growing smile, and now she pats Serena’s arm across the table. “She sounds perfect, Mum. Perfect for you. No less than the best for Serena Campbell, right?”

“Right,” she says. She watches Ellie a moment, watches her eyes. “So you’re … okay with this? Not terrified?”

Ellie shakes her head. “Not terrified,” she says. “Surprised, like I said, but glad for you. Really. I can see from the way you talk about her how much you love her.”

“Yes,” Serena murmurs, feeling her cheeks heat. “I do.”

“I’d love to meet her,” Ellie says, casually, and Serena has to stop herself from gobbing like a fish: this is the first time Ellie has ever expressed any interest in one of her lovers. Maybe it’s the novelty? “When you’re ready.”

“That’s…” Serena feels herself starting to tear up again and firmly presses it down. “That would be lovely,” she says. “Perhaps you can come over for brunch one day. You’d have a chance to see Jason again, then, too.”

“That sounds nice,” Ellie says, and she’s smiling in a way that dimples her cheek, a way that Serena knows is genuine; it warms her even more than the Shiraz. And then, to top it off, Ellie says, “Hey, do you have a photo of her?”

Serena considers pretending that she doesn’t, just to save face, but that will likely only result in Ellie going through her phone without permission, so she nods. “I do, somewhere … I think Jason took a couple the other day when we were … yes, there it is.” She calls the photo up to its full size and hands it across. “That’s her.”

“Mum!” Ellie exclaims, looking shocked.

Serena tenses. “What?” Had she missed some vital determining criterion of the butch-femme definition?

“You could’ve told me she’s, like, _supermodel gorgeous_. Holy shit!”

“Language!” Serena hisses, mostly a reaction to the volume, but Ellie doesn’t appear to be listening.

“Oh my God,” she says. “Does she really look like this?”

“No, I photoshopped it. Honestly, Elinor—”

“Look at her cheekbones! Look at her _figure_!”

“That’s quite enough of that, thank you.” Serena grabs the phone out of her hands, over Ellie’s protests, and stuffs it back in her handbag, shaking her head. “You’re starting to make me feel like a … a frumpy old matron by comparison.”

“I didn’t say that,” Ellie says defensively. “She’s just … really hot.”

“Well, yes, _I_ know that.” Serena rolls her eyes. “I do so hope I’m not going to have to fight you for her.”

*

When she pulls in to the driveway just before ten, she smiles at the sight of Bernie’s car still tucked cosily into its space. She sheds her winter layers at the hat-rack inside the door and is just bending down to free herself of her gorgeous if somewhat-uncomfortable shoes when Bernie’s ruffled head pokes around the corner. “Ah, so it is you! Jason wasn’t sure if the sound we heard was your car or the special effects on the documentary, so I volunteered to investigate.” She walks over, leans against the wall as she watches Serena hang up her coat. “How’d it go?”

Serena turns around and smiles at her expectant expression. “Not exactly as anticipated,” she says carefully, “but on the whole, I’d say well.”

“That’s great news.” Bernie lets out a breath. “What did she say, then?”

Serena moves over to where she’s standing and settles against her, arms draped around Bernie’s neck, their bodies flush. “Well,” she says, “apart from asking me one or two slightly bizarre questions and telling me that her high school best friend had a big lesbian crush on me, she was mostly just interested to know how in the world I’d managed to bag myself such a ‘hottie.’”

Bernie blinks several times and then says, “I’m sorry?”

“That’s what _I_ said. I may not be as ‘supermodel gorgeous’ as you are, but look at me!” Serena gestures helpfully down her body, cocking her hip. “I’ve still got some game.”

“Serena,” Bernie says, laughing, even as she slides her arms around Serena’s waist, fingers dipping beneath the band of her trousers to stroke at her hipbones, “I have no idea what that means, but I’m sure I agree entirely.”

“See!” Serena cries. “I’m more up-to-date on modern lingo than you are! Take that, you great sexy maybe-butch maybe-not army— _oh_ , keep doing that.”

Bernie’s fingers are stroking tingling circles over her skin, her lips wandering Serena’s jawline, when they hear Jason’s voice shouting, “Was it her, Dr. Bernie? If it was, you should bring her so we can watch the rest of this! You’re missing the part about how they made the gunpowder!”

“Can’t have that,” Serena says. Grinning wickedly, she slides her fingers into the opening of Bernie’s shirt and squeezes her breast through her bra, making her gasp. She follows it with a sucking kiss and a nip to Bernie’s pulse-point and then pulls back to say, “We’d best get back before we miss the gunpowder, hmm?”

She strides out of the hallway, careful to sway her hips a little more than is strictly necessary, and is just rounding the corner when she hears Bernie call after her, “What was that about me being butch?”

*

Lying in bed, later, Bernie turns to Serena and says, “You realise that now everybody knows?”

Serena looks over at her, the angles of her lovely face outlined in the streetlight shining through the undrawn curtains, and smiles. “Yes, I suppose they do.”

“That’s…”

Serena tenses. “Scary?”

But Bernie is smiling back at her, almost shyly, a ridiculous fact considering she’s naked, considering what they’ve just done. “No,” she says. “Not really. Maybe a little, but mostly it just feels … good. Freeing. Like opening the windows in a stuffy but beautiful room.”

“And she’s a poet!” Serena teases, tracing a fond finger over her collarbones, between her breasts, along the scar. “What have I done to her?”

Bernie makes an encouraging noise and shifts closer, and Serena keeps her fingers travelling their path, increasing the pressure. “Only… only good things,” Bernie says softly. “Turned me into a connoisseur of Shiraz, for one thing.”

Serena laughs. “It can’t be all bad, then.”

Bernie’s hand closes over her own and she says, “It’s not at all bad, Serena. None of it.”

They watch each other, studying, and Serena bites her lip. “Not even sharing our time with Jason?” she asks. “Not even our hectic lives? Not even … me and my certainly-not-a-supermodel body?”

Bernie snorts, disbelief or dismissal or both, and slides her free hand into Serena’s hair, massaging gently. “None of that,” she says. “I love Jason – you know that. I love our hectic lives. I love – I _love_ your unbelievably gorgeous body.” As if to demonstrate, she bends her head and sucks a nipple into her mouth, laves at it, lets up with an audible pop. And then she says, “I love you.”

It’s so simple, in the end; so natural after ten months of wondering, of waiting, of training herself not to blurt it out all the time, that it should be Bernie who just says it here, now, like this. She doesn’t look terrified, either; doesn’t look like she’s about to bolt off to Iceland or Mongolia to escape it; she just looks like it’s fact.

Serena’s throat feels thick – she swallows, swallows again, blames it on hormones that aren’t to blame. She threads her fingers through messy hair and says, “And I love you, Bernie.” To break the overwhelming tenderness of the moment, she grins and adds, “You supermodel hottie.” 

Bernie laughs out loud, causing Serena to lean in and shush her with her lips, to then continue her journey back down to Bernie’s scar and beyond. Forget gunpowder, she thinks, with a grin at her own awful joke. This kind of explosion is far better.


End file.
